


Five Times Chuck is an Oblivious Idiot (and one time he’s still an oblivious idiot but at least has closure)

by HoopyFrood



Category: All Elite Wrestling, Professional Wrestling
Genre: 5+1 Things, Established Relationship, Fishnets, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Real Events, Kayfabe Compliant, Lack of Communication, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Male Friendship, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Secret Relationship, but not really, chuck's an idiot but he's a good bro, gratuitous use of dude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23724505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoopyFrood/pseuds/HoopyFrood
Summary: Something's wrong with Orange.
Relationships: Orange Cassidy | JC Ryder/Effy | Effy Gibbes, Trent Barreta/Chuck Taylor
Comments: 10
Kudos: 44





	Five Times Chuck is an Oblivious Idiot (and one time he’s still an oblivious idiot but at least has closure)

It’s the morning of _All Out_ and catering’s already buzzing. You can barely take two steps before being swept up into a hug or pulled into an animated conversation, and with the inaugural AEW World Champion being crowned later on in the night, there’s a real sense among crew and talent alike that they’re on the cusp of making history.

Chuck should be soaking it in, committing every little detail to memory so that ten, twenty years down the line he can look back on today and think, _fuck, that was cool_. 

_Should_ being the operative word.

“Something’s up with Orange,” Chuck says as he browses the breakfast buffet with Trent.

Trent leaves his hand hovering in the air halfway between the chocolate muffins and croissants as he waits for Chuck to continue. “In what way?” He prompts when it’s clear Chuck isn’t going to offer up any more information without being asked.

“It’s hard to explain,” Chuck begins as he eyes the pile of bagels someone has painstakingly arranged into a pyramid. “He’s just, I don’t know, being weird.”

Trent snorts and grabs two croissants, one for him and one for the plate he’s pilling up with food for Orange. “He’s always weird,” he says, adding a banana and a couple of yogurts to his haul.

“Yeah, but that’s a _good_ weird,” Chuck says, busying himself with making Trent’s coffee. “It’s putting me on edge, man.”

“Maybe he’s just nervous. I mean, tonight is technically his debut.”

“Nervous? Dude. Orange doesn’t get nervous. I don’t think he’s even capable.”

“Fair,” Trent concedes. 

“It’s the little things,” Chuck continues. “Like, the other day he vacuumed the apartment without me even asking. And this morning, he asked if I slept well. I mean, what the fuck does that even _mean_?”

“You know, the fact he’s acting like a functional human being shouldn’t be a red flag but this is Orange we’re talking about.”

“Exactly,” he says, pointing the plastic stirrer at Trent. “Do you think he’s dying?”

“Do I think he’s dying and he’s decided to spend whatever time he has left being nice to you? No, dude, I don’t,” Trent says with a grin. “Got to say, I haven’t noticed anything that out of the ordinary.”

“That’s because you don’t live with him,” Chuck says. “Every second I worry he’s going to say some bullshit like we should, I don’t know, start eating at the dining table or something.”

Trent gasps. “Oh, shit, not the _dining table_ ,” he says, one hand splayed against his chest in faux shock.

Chuck laughs in spite of himself, playfully kicking out at Trent who side-steps it with ease. “Whatever. You’ll see what I mean.”

Back in their locker room, Orange is sitting with his legs up on a spare chair, idly scrolling through his phone with a happy little smile on his face and sunglasses pushed up onto his head. Trent pauses briefly in the doorway, taking in the scene with visible confusion as Chuck dramatically gestures towards Orange as if to say _see?_

“Alright, man?” Trent greets cautiously, placing the plate on his lap.

Orange looks up and practically _beams_ at them. Surprised, Trent takes a step backwards, bumping into Chuck who steadies him with a hand on his waist.

“Yeah, not bad,” he says before turning his attention back to his phone, smile still playing across his lips.

“Okay, that _is_ weird,” Trent concedes, voice lowered.

“Told you.”

Chuck watches with bated breath as Trent takes a seat next to him. “Ready for tonight?” Trent asks, trying for causal. Orange makes a little affirmative hmm-mm noise. “Nervous?” He adds and Orange lightly huffs in amusement under his breath.

“Yeah, yeah. I know, stupid question,” he says.

“Are you dying?” Chuck butts in, unable to keep quiet any longer.

Orange looks up with a frown. “What?” His phone rings and they all jump in surprise. Orange beams again when he sees the name of whoever is ringing him flash across the screen. “Gotta take this,” he says, pushing his plate back into Trent’s hands before wandering off into the hallway.

“Well?” Chuck asks as soon as Orange’s out of ear shot.

Trent shrugs. “Just keep an eye on him, I guess.”

“Really? That’s all you’ve got?”

“I don’t know what you want from me, man,” he says, taking a tentative sip of his coffee before taking a longer, greedier one.

“Maybe some reassurance I’m not freaking out over nothing, something a little more proactive than _wait and see_.” Chuck commandeers Orange’s empty chair, immediately slouching down into it. “Don’t know why I even keep you around, sometimes,” he sighs, snagging Trent’s banana. “You know, excluding the obvious, of course,” he adds, eyebrows raised as he wiggles the banana in Trent’s face.

“Of course,” Trent echoes. “I mean, it’s the same reason I keep _you_ around.”

* * *

Things don’t exactly go back to normal once _Dynamite_ starts, but they’re all so busy that Chuck doesn’t really have the time to dwell on why Orange has a proverbial pep in his step. Instead, the Tag-Team Tournament ends up occupying most of the space he’d designated for worrying about Orange and when they don’t even make it past the first round, Chuck‘s already so used to him smiling more that it barely registers on his weirdness scale.

“I mean, we’ve had our issues over the years, so for us the distance isn’t really a deal breaker in the grand scheme of things, ya know?”

Chuck stops in his tracks. 

That sounds like Moxley. 

He peeks around the corner and sees him propped up against the wall next to Orange. The two of them are angled ever so slightly towards each other, their arms crossed in comfort rather than confrontation, and look for all the world like a couple of friends having a casual conversation.

“Must have been hard to get used to, though,” Orange replies in his usual slow and considered monotone.

Moxley laughs and it shaves about ten years off his face. Hell, if his hair was longer, he’d look like the Moxley Chuck remembers from CZW. “You have no idea. Even when he was running around with The Authority we only went two times without seeing each other regularly and that was when we were both out injured. Ridiculous, ain’t it? Even when I hated him it had to take our bodies falling apart to keep us away from each other.” 

“So how do you make it work?” Orange asks.

Orange’s always been strangely good at making friends. It’s probably because he’s the sort of person to just sit back and let everyone else do the talking, content to listen and only chime in when absolutely necessary. It’s served him well over the years, from industry bigshots thinking they have a captive audience, to young up-and-comers looking to unload all their doubts and fears onto someone that isn’t going to scoff in their face. But taming Moxley into a conversation? That suggests one of them approached the other which, either way, Chuck is having trouble wrapping his head around.

“Well, I always make sure to shoot him a text when I wake up and then another when I go to sleep so he knows he’s my first and last thought every day.”

And okay, that’s kind of sweet. He thinks of the messages he sends Trent when they’re not on the road together and how they usually consist of dick pics and increasingly ridiculous fuck/marry/kills. Gulak once said it was their love language.

“That’s sweet,” Orange says, echoing Chuck’s thoughts.

Moxley ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment. “This is going to sound kind of lame but, he’s into coffee, right? Whatever city we’re in, I always check out some of local coffee shops so I can recommend them to him for whenever he passes through with RAW. You can still do all that thoughtful shit even if there’s, like, six hours between you. You’ve just got to understand your limitations and adjust your expectations accordingly.”

Orange nods. “True.”

Moxley graces him with a crooked grin. “Basically, just talk as often as you can and let him know you’re thinking of him.”

It hits him like a European uppercut that he probably shouldn’t be listening to this and he quickly turns to go, his sneakers squeaking loudly against the floor in his haste.

“Ah, fuck,” he mutters.

The kind and affectionate expression on Moxley’s face settles into something a little more guarded but certainly not the scowl he’d been expecting. Which, okay, Chuck can deal with that.

Chuck steps out from his hiding place and holds up his hands. “I come in peace.”

Moxley snorts, shoulders lowering from where they had started to defensively creep up towards his ears. “Whatever,” he says dismissively before clapping Orange companionably on the shoulder and leaving the same way Chuck had arrived, nodding to him as he passes.

Chuck slowly whistles as he approaches Orange. “What was all that about?”

“Just wanted some advice.”

“From Moxley? What, do you need to know where to buy barbed wire in bulk or something? Come on, man, you know you can talk to me about anything.”

“I know. But you and Trent work together so,” he trails off with a shrug as if that answers Chuck’s question. 

Chuck looks at him blankly. “Right. Well. He’s not so bad when he isn’t covered in blood, I suppose. Practically a teddy bear,” he says, nudging Orange in the side. “A really buff, slightly unhinged teddy bear.”

“Yeah, he’s alright,” Orange agrees.

* * *

Being a professional wrestler means making life-changing choices almost daily.

Some are relatively easy, like deciding on your entrance music or what you want your ring-gear to look like. Some rip you apart from the inside. Every jab at your weight, every blank face when you’re introduced to someone new, every unhelpful suggestion about how _if you stopped dicking around with your friends and started taking things a little more seriously maybe you’d get signed_ leaves you at an unpleasant crossroads. Do you take a risk at glory or settle for what you know? Better wrestlers, better _people_ , than him have chosen the path paved with gold only to find out too late that it was only gold plated.

When All Elite Wrestling came along, Chuck was given a choice he hadn’t even been offered in Ring of Honor and New Japan. He was offered _compromise_. He was offered the stability and pay check of international arenas, but the freedom and camaraderie of local community halls. And he didn’t even have to think twice before taking it.

It hits him again in Buffalo for _TID The Season_ just how lucky he is. From being on TV just last month to sharing a card with Nick Gage, Tommy Dreamer and fucking Space Monkey at what is pretty much a glorified _Every Time I Die_ concert. There’s nothing quite like the indies.

“Chuck Taylorhausen!” Chuck swears and drops the roll of wrist tape he’d been fruitless trying to find the end of. “You’re a friend of Orangehausen, yes?” Danhausen asks, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Er, yeah,” Chuck confirms and Danhausen’s face lights up, the black paint around his lips distorting what would otherwise be quite a charming smile into something vaguely unsettling. 

Danhausen grabs Chuck’s hand and vigorously pumps it up and down. “Any friend of Orangehausen is a friend of Danhausen,” he insists.

“Sure,” Chuck agrees as he’s jostled about. He may be slight, but Danhausen’s strong, stronger than Chuck would have assumed.

“Ah!” He gasps suddenly and Chuck eyes him warily. “You’re all alone! That won’t do. Danhausen will keep you company.”

“I’m good, man, Trent will be back soon— Annnd you’re sitting down. Right. Cool,” he says, resigned, as Danhausen pulls up a chair.

Danhausen dismissively flaps his hand. “Then Danhausen will stay until Trenthausen is back and Orangehausen has finished catching up with the lovely Effy.”

That makes him pause. “Effy? I didn’t know they were close.” 

Chuck doesn’t know Effy particularly well. They’ve never had a match together as far as he can remember but they’ve been on the same card countless times. He likes what he’s seen, though. Dude’s tough as nails and funny as fuck. Definitely the sort of person he could see himself shooting the shit with. Not to mention he has that dope-ass jacket that Chuck could only dream about having the balls to pull off.

Danhausen shrieks with laughter and slaps Chuck on the knee in mirth. “Chuck is very funny.”

Chuck can’t help but crack a smile, utterly bemused.

When Trent does eventually return it’s with Orange in tow. The show’s only two matches deep but Orange’s already switched out his usual denim-on-denim for an old _Gentleman’s Club_ hoodie and a pair of Chuck’s sweatpants. His backpack hangs loosely over one shoulder and it’s about double the size it was when they arrived. 

“This one’s leaving already,” Trent says, jerking his thumb over to Orange.

“Before our match? Some friend you are.”

“Gotta catch a flight,” Orange says simply with a shrug. “Ready to go?” he directs to Danhausen.

“Yes, yes, yes.” Danhausen grabs Chuck’s hand again, this time gently kissing the back of it like they’re in a Jane Austen novel. Chuck would probably be weirded out if he hadn’t caught him doing the exact same thing to Kevin Blackwood earlier in the day and chalks it up to one of Danhausen’s many, _many_ eccentricities.

“Call me when you land,” he tells Orange once he’s wriggled his hand free.

He only gets a limp thumbs up before they’re out the door, Orange nodding along to Danhausen’s incessant chatter as they go.

“Making friends?” Trent asks once they’re alone.

“Did you know he carries that jar of teeth with him everywhere?” Chuck says instead. “Like, actual human teeth, dude. In a mason jar.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of his thing,” Trent says.

Chuck doesn’t see Orange again until he comes home a couple of days later. 

Chuck’s camped out on the couch with Walter curled up next to him. It’s just gone 8:00pm when the little dog’s ears prick up and he’s off like a shot towards the door. Chuck hears Orange greet Walter with a soft _hey boy_ and _missed you_ in quick succession. He strains to hear what comes after, but assumes whatever it is Orange has muffled it in the dog’s fur. He always spends a few minutes with his faced pressed against Walter when they get home after a couple of days on the road.

“How was Canada?” He asks when Orange finally shuffles into the living room, Walter yapping round his ankles.

“Not bad. Lost the title,” he says with a shrug before falling face first onto the couch next to Chuck. “Brought you back some ketchup Lays,” he adds, voice muffled by a cushion.

“Fuck yeah.”

After a few moments, Orange begins to awkwardly shift around like a dying fish, too lazy to get up and rearrange himself in a better position. In the process, his t-shirt slowly rides up over his stomach, exposing his hips and a substantial dusting of bruises. The sort of bruises you don’t get from wrestling.

“Oh ho ho,” Chuck sing-songs with glee and slides his laptop off his legs and onto the coffee table. He reaches over and prods at the closest yellowing bruise. Orange hisses and tries to wriggle away, half-heartedly swatting at his hand. 

“I’m not in the mood.”

But Chuck leans in, desperate for a closer look at what was clearly once a bite mark. “Damn, dude. Were you mauled? Seriously, though, good for you.”

“Seriously. Leave it.”

It’s about as stern as he’s ever heard him and Chuck frowns. “Are you really that bummed about losing the title?”

“’Course not. It’s just hard leaving, ya know?”

“Tell me about it. Canada’s so much _cleaner_. I feel like I can actually breathe up there. Fuck knows what Philly’s done to my lungs over the years.”

It takes a little while for Orange to reply. The low hum of the fridge, a police car whizzing past the apartment, and Walter chasing the last remaining bits of kibble around his bowl are all oppressively loud in the silence.

“You’re such an idiot,” Orange eventually says before sitting up and Chuck relaxes, unaware he’d been holding his breath.

When Orange faces him Chuck winces at how tired he looks. Not only are his eyes painfully bloodshot, but the skin below them is darker than the bruises now safely hidden away from twitchy fingers. His stubble is at that awkward patchy stage and his hair is sticking up in all directions as if he’s been running his hands through it.

“Fancy a pizza? My treat,” Chuck offers.

Orange leans his head back against the couch and slowly exhales. “Sounds good.”

* * *

Chuck doesn’t usually make a habit of rooting around in his friend’s bags, but him and Orange? They’ve been living out of each other’s back pockets for the better part of a decade. They’ve been through break-ups, bereavements, injuries, birthdays, Christmases. He’s walked in on Orange with his legs wrapped around someone’s head and Orange has walked in on him on all fours. Chuck’s never known anyone that he hasn’t been sleeping with quite so intimately as he does Orange and they’ve operated under strict what’s mine is yours, mi casa es tu casa, rules ever since Orange moved in with him three years ago. So yeah, if he needs some gum or change for a venue’s vending machine, he’ll grab Orange’s bag knowing the _sure, go for it_ will always be implied.

He’s rummaging around for the chapstick he knows Orange keeps at the bottom of his bag when his fingers get caught up in some sort of netting. Intrigued, he grabs whatever it is and pulls out a pair of fishnets.

Chuck stares down at them. “What the fuck?” he mumbles to himself before he realises what he’s holding and immediately stuffs them back into the backpack. He holds still for a few seconds, heart beating wildly in his chest, and before laughing. “What am I doing?” He says, reaching back in to retrieve them, a grin stretched wide across his face.

“What are you doing over there?” Trent shouts from where he’s bent over at the waist drying his hair.

“Give me a sec, dude,” he replies and dashes into the adjoining room that Jurassic Express had been hanging out in before being reluctantly herded out to film some promos.

It turns out fishnets are a bitch to get on. His toes keep getting caught in the holes and more than once he thinks he’s ripped them. When he finally has his feet in, he slowly pulls them up his legs and over his briefs. Turning to the full length mirror on the back of the door, he can’t stop the bark of laughter when he sees his reflection.

He saunters back over to Trent, exaggerating the sway of his hips to the point of parody.

Trent’s eyes immediately fall to his legs and Chuck hears his sharp intake of breath over the sound of the hairdryer now hanging uselessly in his grip. “Not going to lie, this is really doing it for me.”

“Shit, really?” Chuck says, disappointed he wasn’t able to coax an amused _what the fuck, dude?_ out of Trent until he’s being crowded up against the table and all coherent thought has turned to mush and dribbled out of his ears.

“Don’t get me wrong, you look fucking ridiculous.” Trent wiggles a finger through one of the holes, pulls it taught, and lets it ping back against Chuck’s skin. “But your legs? Your _dick_? Holy shit.”

Chuck swallows thickly. “You’re such a weirdo,” he manages.

“Takes one to know one,” Trent retorts, his hands skimming across Chuck’s thighs like he’s unsure where he wants to touch first.

“How long have we got before we’re needed, do you think?” Chuck asks, slipping his hands into the back of Trent’s jeans and pulling him flush against his front.

“Ten minutes? Fifteen, tops,” Trent says, already mouthing at Chuck’s neck.

“Better make this quick then.”

“That won’t be a problem for you,” Trent says and Chuck can feel his smile against his skin. 

“Fuck you. Take your shirt off.”

* * *

Chuck’s barely through the door to their hotel room when his stomach violently churns and he’s dropping all his bags and running to the bathroom. He falls to his knees in front of the toilet and immediately starts emptying his lunch into the porcelain bowl. He heaves until there’s nothing left then heaves some more, all the while Orange dutifully rubs his back.

“Do you want me to call Trent?” Orange asks once Chuck is finally finished. Chuck rests his head against his arm and concentrates on trying to slow his breathing.

“Why the fuck would I want you to do that?” He croaks. “It was probably just that gas station BLT.”

“I told you not to eat it.”

“Dude, it was marked down to $0.50!” The silence that follows is pointed. “Yeah, okay. I’m sure I’ll be fine now, just needed to get it all out.”

An hour later, Chuck is very much not fine. He’s curled up in the chair by the window in a fetal position, sweating through his shirt as Orange talks on the phone. He can’t make out what he’s saying but he sounds concerned.

“I told you not to call Trent,” Chuck groans once he’s hung up.

Orange silently pads his way across the room and perches on the arm of the chair. “I wasn’t talking to Trent,” he says, running his fingers gently through Chuck’s damp hair.

“Don’t, I’m gross,” he whines and makes a feeble attempt at jerking his head away.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Orange agrees but makes no move to pull back.

Chuck, too weak to fight it further, leans into his touch, not-so-secretly enjoying the gentle strokes against his scalp. “At least we don’t have to be out of here until midday tomorrow…” He mumbles.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when a cool hand is pressed against his forehead. “You should be in bed.” 

He’s gently coaxed upright before his arm is tugged over a pair of strong shoulders and he’s helped to his feet. Chuck can only make out short dark hair and a bit of scruff before his vision swims and he sags in the mystery person’s grip, completely drained of energy.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” they reassure him. “Keep your eyes closed if it’s easier. Your head must be pounding.”

He groans in relief as soon as he hits the cool sheet of his bed.

“Better?” The voice asks, clearly amused.

“So good,” he slurs, his tongue thick and uncoordinated. “Better than sex.”

“Well let’s not go that far.”

He wakes up at some point later and two pills are forced into his hand which he obediently takes with a cool glass of water as warm fingers gently skim across his forehead. Once he hands back the glass, soothing words of comfort follow him back under the covers and he quickly falls into a dreamless sleep.

When he wakes up _again_ , he takes a few moments to make sure the nausea is completely gone before slowly easing himself up. His throat is raw in a way he’s all too familiar with and he’ll probably be shitting through the eye of a needle for a few days, but the worst has seemingly passed.

The room is pitch black, but the moon shines bright through a gap in the curtains, illuminating Orange who’s dead to the world in the other bed closest to the door. On the bedside table between them there’s a pack of crackers next to a bottle of orange juice. Chuck’s chest tightens with affection.

Grabbing his phone, 03:00am stares up at him, as do a slew of texts from Trent.

>   
>  From: Trent  
>  [22:31] heard you blew chunks everywhere  
>  [22:31] feel better soon, I guess  
>  [22:32] or don’t, I’m not your mom  
>  [22:34] seriously tho, call me when you’re feeling up to it, doesn’t matter what the time is I’ll be awake  
> 

* * *

Orange is little more than a sweaty, battered mess when they’re finally able to make their way back to the ring. Trent drops to his knees beside Bryce Remsburg, immediately batting his hands away to check the painful red marks PAC had left around his neck and across his chest.

Chuck stands in front of them and warily eyes the entrance way at the top of the ramp, half expecting Pentagón and Fénix to run back out, but thankfully no one comes bar a handful of ring-crew.

“You guys okay?” Orange croaks once he’s supported between the two of them, head lolling as he looks at Trent then Chuck.

“Are _we_ okay? Jesus Christ, dude,” Trent says as the chants of _Freshly Squeezed_ follow their slow trek backstage.

“I’m going to kick his ass next week,” Chuck assures Orange as they pass through gorilla.

“What, in a match? Or are you just going to jump him at catering?” Trent teases. It’s such an obvious attempt to ease the tension and anger thrumming under his skin that Chuck almost does something sappy like lean across Orange to kiss him.

“Either. Both.”

“Both?” Trent manages through a laugh. “Hey, man, it’s your funeral.”

“Oh, like you’re not going to be ring-side cheering me on.” Chuck pauses, head cocked to the side in thought. “Or napkins and cutlery-side, I guess.”

“Vegetarian option-side?” Trent offers

“A surprisingly extensive cereal selection-side?” Orange suggests.

“Wherever this ass kicking ends up taking place, make sure to get in a shot for me,” someone interrupts from in front of them.

Chuck looks up just as Orange pulls out of his grasp and stumbles into a pair of open arms.

It’s weird to see Effy without the fishnets and spiked leather jacket, but the way he carries himself is exactly the same as always; loose, approachable, and effortlessly seductive. He greets Orange with a sweet kiss that oozes familiarity.

“When the fuck did this happen?” Chuck blurts out loudly causing a few interested members of production staff to glance up from their clipboards.

“Dude,” Trent hisses, nudging him hard in the side with his elbow. “Nice to see you again, man,” he says to Effy, politely holding out a hand.

“Likewise,” he says before turning to Chuck. “You look a lot better than the last time I saw you.”

“Wait, what?”

“Remember when you were ill last month? Who do think stayed with you when I had to run to the drugstore? Effy was passing through, we had plans to go out, but I didn’t want to leave you so he came over to the hotel.” 

It’s the most Orange’s said all day and he’s momentarily thrown. “What?” He repeats dumbly.

Orange frowns. “After the Wrestlepalooza shows,” he prompts slowly. “Did you get hit in the head when the Lucha Bros chased you backstage?”

Chuck thinks back to that night. It’s kind of a blur, a mishmash of sounds and smells rather than anything concrete, but he does vaguely remember someone else being in the room.

“Okay, well, I totally thought I hallucinated that,” he admits with a shrug.

“You’re a goddamn disaster, dude,” Trent says fondly.

“I was puking my organs up, cut me some slack,” he says, smiling at Trent before awkwardly turning his attention back to Effy. “Sorry, man. And thanks.”

“It’s fine. I got to hang out with my boyfriend _and_ play nurse to his cute friend,” Effy says with a wink. “That’s a win as far as I’m concerned.”

“Fuck that was smooth,” Chuck mumbles under his breath, neck prickling with heat. “Oh, shit! This is why you’ve been acting so weird!” He crows excitedly, gesturing between Orange and Effy.

“No shit, genius,” Trent deadpans and Chuck looks at him with betrayal written all across his face.

“You knew?” He accuses.

“ _You_ didn’t?” Orange asks, his lips quirked in amusement.

“To be fair, I only found out, like, the day before _TID The Season_ ,” Trent confesses.

“Which was in December!” Chuck points out. “It really wouldn’t have killed you to let me know.”

“What can I say? I wanted to see how long it would take you to catch on.”

“Mean,” he says, poking Trent sharply in the chest. “Mean and unnecessary.”

“Okay,” Effy interrupts with a clap of his hands, “clearly some wires were crossed and I’d love to get the details, but how about this. We were going to grab something to eat then find a bar, why don’t you both join us?”

“You sure?” Orange asks. “These two won’t mind if we ditch them.”

“Got to get to know the in-laws eventually, right? And anyway, I can’t pass up the opportunity to recruit another tag-team for my Big Gay Brunch.”

“I’m in,” Trent agrees easily.

They all look at Chuck expectantly.

“Duh, of course,” he says and slings his arms around both Orange and Effy’s shoulders. “Fucking _knew_ something was up.”

**Author's Note:**

> Some important dates:
> 
>   * 27/07/2019 - GCW: Lights Out. Effy vs. Orange. After the match, Effy asks Orange out for coffee. He agrees. They leave hand-in-hand. This actually happened and is cute as hell.
>   * 31/08/2019 - AEW All Out. Orange Cassidy’s official AEW debut.
>   * 14/12/2019 – TID The season. Orange Cassidy, Big Time Bill Collier, VSK + Anthony Gaines vs. Effy, Danhausen, Matt Justice + Hacker Scotty O’Shea is the first match on the card. Best Friends vs. The Butcher & The Blade main event.
>   * 15/12/2019 - Alpha-1 Wrestling: Krush the Line. Effy vs. Orange (c) vs. Dan the Dad vs. Danhausen for the Zero Gravity Championship. Orange loses the Championship to Dan the Dad.
>   * 3/01/2020 & 4/01/2020 - Chuck and Orange wrestle both nights of F1RST Wrestling’s Wrestlepalooza.
>   * 29/02/2020 – AEW Revolution. Orange Cassidy’s first singles match. Loses to PAC. Best Friends get chased from ringside by the Lucha Bros. Effy was in the crowd. He even took a photo or Orange and [tweeted](https://twitter.com/EFFYlives/status/1233958453825228800) it.
> 

> 
> Also, at the time of planning/drafting Effy’s Big Gay Brunch was still happening and Chuck hadn’t announced he was moving.


End file.
